


The Spotted Pig

by spacemonkey



Category: U2
Genre: Dick Pics, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-08
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2018-08-29 21:08:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8505409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemonkey/pseuds/spacemonkey
Summary: Edge had been called a lot of things in his life, and, after fifty five years, he knew only to believe half of what was being said. But if there were ever a word that he felt described him best, it would have to be patient.After three and a half minutes of no response, though, Edge was seriously starting to doubt his patience.Set in 2016.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MissEllaVation](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissEllaVation/gifts).



> Hi all! As usual, this is not Nexus. But it's fine, completely fine.
> 
> Last week, it was PJ's birthday, and I decided to write her a fic. What sort of fic would you be interested in, I asked her, and she responded with words that sounded like Extreme Current Bedge Talking and Doing Things and Fucking.
> 
> . . .this is some of those things. I don't really know what happened. I am a terrible gift giver, as it turns out, but I hope you do enjoy this, whatever this is. And on this stressful election day, I hope this brings you some joy, I love you. Happy late birthday.

Edge had been called a lot of things in his life, and, after fifty five years, he knew only to believe half of what was being said. He’d been called serious - too many times to count - and he’d been called funny - though always, it had been followed by _in a deadpan sort of way,_ because he was just _so_ serious. He’d been called a wanker, an arsehole, Dave, and even The Hedge, but if there were ever a word that Edge felt described him best, it would have to be _patient_.

Because he was. Mostly. Generally, though he had his moments, but who didn’t? Who wouldn’t once in a while, when they were staring down the sort of issues that he was constantly faced with?

Delays, a missing sound, rotating schedules that never seemed to come together right when he needed them to, and a voice in his ear that was constant, demanding his attention, his time, his understanding, even when Edge had no idea what the fuck Bono was even on about.

Sometimes, Edge marveled at his own restraint. But mostly, he just kept it cool. Because he might have been a wanker, he might even have been too serious, and once in a while he supposed he could be funny - in a deadpan sort of way - but he knew, ninety nine point nine percent of the time, that he was patient.

Still, after three and a half minutes of no response, Edge was seriously starting to doubt himself. Patient? God no, not tonight. Tonight he was anything but, staring at his phone like a fucking idiot, watching as the clock ticked over to 7:27 so slowly that it was as if time itself was making a mockery of the whole situation.

Three and a half minutes, and Bono hadn’t responded. What the hell was wrong with him?

With a sigh, Edge looked down at himself. It just seemed all a bit silly now, after three and a half minutes, and the high he had felt had turned into something that was close to apathy, which was a strange state to be in when one had an erection.

There had been an idea in his head, though, a _plan_ \- not a very good one, he had to admit, and it had been made on the fly, but it was still something - and now he just didn’t know what to do. Well, there was one thing he probably should do, but it just didn’t seem quite as appealing as it had more than three and a half minutes before when he’d hit send with a stupid little smile on his face, silently applauding himself for being a tart.

Usually, that was Bono’s area.

Another minute ticked over, and Edge considered just calling the bastard, to let him know exactly what he was missing out on. To hear his voice, or at the very least, his voicemail, and try and make something out of the night. Something for Edge, anyway, because after four and a half minutes of no response, Edge figured Bono was already enjoying life across the country.

The bastard.

A simple five hour flight was all it would take. Five hours, and he could make it through the city and get to Bono at a time when they might as well say _fuck it_ and start making breakfast plans.

It was a stupid idea. He was stupid. They both were.

 _Fuck it_ , Edge figured, and reached for his cock.

His phone trilled to life, and, in an attempt to show just how blasé he was about the whole situation, Edge let it ring three times before picking up.

“You motherfucker,” Bono greeted him, and Edge couldn’t entirely tell if he was impressed or not. “There I was, trying to enjoy a nice, quiet dinner with some nice, quiet people, when in the middle of it all I find myself assaulted by your fucking cock. I opened that photo in the middle of _The Spotted Pig_ , Edge. Michael Bloomberg was sitting at my elbow. I’m still not entirely sure if he saw it or not, I mean, jesus, even if he did, how would he approach such a situation? _Whose cock is that, Bono_ ? _Oh, how wonderful for the both of you_! And to think, we had just finished talking about Anthony Fucking Weiner."

He exhaled, and Edge couldn’t help the laugh that snuck on through. “I’m not sorry.”

“Is that so? You’re not sorry? How incredibly wonderful for you, Edge.”

He wasn’t mad. Edge was certain, despite the tone of Bono’s voice, and the words, and the general . . . everything. Edge knew he wasn’t mad, because he knew Bono, and he felt so confident about Bono’s clandestine mood that his own voice took on a smug tone as he asked, “I’m going to assume you’re not still sitting to Michael Bloomberg, then?”

Another sigh came, one that was theatrical enough to make it all the way to Broadway, but Edge could hear the smile in Bono’s voice as he said, “No, I excused myself to the bathroom, of course. I abandoned my beautifully aged Sauvignon Blanc to come and hang out in the toilet with you. If Bloomberg did see the picture, I’m sure he’s jumping to all sorts of conclusions.”

“And what sort of conclusions might they be?” Edge asked, because he was fucking horny as well as confident, damnit.

There was a pause, and then Bono laughed. “You whore,” he said warmly, then, “You’re a fucking idiot, though, you know that right?”

He did. He knew it too well, but still, he just had to ask, “And why is that?” Because he was an idiot.

“You can’t send shit like that, Edge, what if our phones got hacked?” Bono said in his best Dad voice, and Edge wasn’t quite sure if he should be into it or not. On the one hand, it was a bit strange. But on the other hand . . .

It was probably not the best time to get into that, so Edge just pushed it aside, for now, rolling his eyes as he said, “No one would care enough to hack our phones, B.”

“Excuse me, I’m a fucking VIP.” Bono was haughty now, and that? That got a definite rise out of Edge, and, like always, he didn’t really want to think why exactly, he was just glad for that nice little tingle in his belly, and lower, lower still until he could almost imagine the words being whispered against his cock.

Oh no, Edge was not a patient man at all. “Look,” he said. “Did you like the picture or not?”

“Of course I liked it.” Bono sounded almost offended. “You have a beautiful penis. It’s always a sight to behold, and I hope to see much more of it before it starts looking more like mine-”

“What do you mean, ‘more like yours’?”

“I honestly think that if you were to put a little hat on mine, it would greatly resemble the wrinkled ole’ Irishmen you see down at the pub, Edge.”

Edge closed his eyes, briefly. “Fucking hell, forget I asked. The actual mental image-”

“But like I said, it’s always a wonder, and God knows I miss it, I do, Edge, but can you imagine-”

“No, Bono, I don’t _want_ to imagine. . .” Edge trailed off, licking his lips as he thought it through. Disastrous mental image or not, he was still ready to go. More than ready, he was a loaded weapon. “Maybe I do, actually. What might we be imagining tonight, Bono?”

Bono snorted. “Public shame?”

“Well, that’s something, I suppose.” It wasn’t really what Edge wanted though, and thankfully an idea was formulating. “What about you and me, _alone-_

“Oh no,” Bono cut in, “we’re not going to do this.”

“Oh, yes we are.”

“Not on your life.”

“But-”

“Edge, I’m currently holed up in the thankfully still empty bathroom of a restaurant that is fully booked, filled with people who are drinking the night away and will no doubt, at any moment now, walk in desperate for a piss.”

Edge understood desperate. “Then we will just have to be really quick, won’t we?”

“ _We_ , Edge? Do you really think this conversation has been stimulating enough to turn this into a _we_ situation?”

“. . .yes?”

There was a pause. “I really have to get back, Edge.”

“No, I’m sure they’re fine without you, B, come on.” Closing his eyes, Edge slid a tantalizing palm against the skin of his thigh, ready and willing. “We can do it together, alright? Just -”

“Talk you off?”

“Yes, _please_.”

“Hmm,” Bono pondered, and it was almost convincing. _Almost_. “I just don’t think I can fit that into my schedule, Edge, but-”

“Fuck you.”

“- can I pencil you in for Friday-”

“You’re ruining my life.”

“- you know, when we’re actually in the same city? Together, Edge? For real?”

“. . .fine.”

“Fantastic,” Bono said briskly. “I’ll continue to review the file you sent me then, and on Friday we can discuss it, face to face, in intimate detail.”

Through gritted teeth, Edge said, “Oh, I look forward to it,” and he did, really he did, but it wasn’t much use now, was it?

“I’m sure you do,” Bono mused. “I’ll see you then.”

“Yup, see-”

“Oh, I almost forgot to tell you,” Bono cut in, with a slight laugh that Edge didn’t trust as far as he could fucking throw it. Which, admittedly, wasn’t actually a thing one could do. “I was thinking, just last night, about that place we stayed at in Montreal a few years back. You know, the one with the shower that could have easily fit six people? Or,” he paused, and Edge just knew there was a glint in his eye, “just the two of us, alone, for almost an hour.”

Edge swallowed, hard. “Right,” he managed.

“Think about it,” Bono suggested. “I know I will.”

The line went dead, but it was fine, as much as Edge wished things were different. He was penciled in for Friday, after all, and what was three days, really?

And anyway, for tonight, he figured as he reached for his cock, at least he had Montreal.


End file.
